Love v Justice, or A Case of Blind Faith
by Frost Deejn
Summary: Munch falls for someone his own age for a change. Too bad she's the prime suspect in a brutal homicide.
1. The Case

Disclaimer: _Law and Order: SVU_ is not mine. I did not create it or its characters, and I'm obviously not profiting from it.

Love v. Justice,

or

A Case of Blind Faith 

Chapter 1: The Case

Stabler and Benson arrived at the scene of a homicide in the small hours of the morning. "What do we have?" Elliot asked tiredly.

"The vic's name was Yermolai Petrov, a 56-year-old Russian immigrant. A neighbor called in about an hour ago complaining about the noise. The chain lock on the door was broken. The victim cracked the door open but didn't want the perp to get in. We took one look at the corpse and decided this is a job for SVU," said Captain Marcos, the officer who'd been first on the scene.

"Why?" asked Olivia.

Dr. Warner answered. Her eyes and gloved fingers continued to examine the blood-streaked body slumped against the living room couch. "Genitals cut off with a kitchen knife. Haven't found it yet. Beaten to death with this." She picked up a long copper pipe covered in blood, already wrapped for evidence.

"We found that in a garbage outside the building," Marcos said. "The murderer tried to hide it by wrapping it up in a trash bag."

Elliot crouched down to get a closer look at the body. "Someone really wanted this guy dead," he commented.

Dr. Warner agreed. "A lot of the blunt-force wounds are post-mortem, as is the genital mutilation. The killer was mad as hell at this guy; wasn't content with just killing him."

"Have you found anything to help us ID the perp?" Olivia asked.

"Judging by the position of the initial blows to the head, and the force of the strikes, you're either looking for a small man or a woman. I'm leaning toward the latter."

"That narrows down our suspect list to only half the city," Olivia commented.

* * *

Munch and Fin canvassed the neighborhood later that morning. 

The upstairs neighbor—the one who called 911—had seen someone run from the building a few minutes after the clamor woke her up. She couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman, but said the person had short dark hair and was wearing a brown trench coat. The only other neighbor who knew anything was a nosy bald man who lived down the hall.

"I didn' hear nothing last night, but yesterday I saw Mr. Petrov arguin' with some broad."

"What were they arguin' about?" asked Fin.

"Beats me. It was in Russian. I seen her around here before—always in the afternoon, never at night—but I'd never seen them arguing. He wouldn't even let her in; they argued through the door. They shouted at each other for about five minutes, then the broad took off."

"Can you describe this 'broad'?" Munch requested.

"Middle aged, skinny, short black hair...she spoke Russian, but she looked Asian. She had green eyes. I remember that from one time when I bumped into her in the hall."

"Know her name?"

"If I did, I woulda telled you already, instead of taking a whole minute out of my day to describe 'er."

"We appreciate your time, Mr. Johnson," Munch assured him. He handed over his card. "Please call us if you remember anything else."

They walked out of the apartment building into a windy and overcast morning. Munch pulled his black trench coat tighter around himself. "Let's find this skinny broad."

* * *

When they got back to the precinct, Cragen was waiting for them. 

"What's the word?" asked Fin.

"We have some information on the victim's family. He has an ex-wife and two kids: a son in college, a daughter married and living in New Jersey. They immigrated in 1990. I've sent Olivia and Elliot to talk to the daughter. You two are going to talk to the son. So far we haven't found an address for his ex-wife. See what you can get."

"We looking at the ex for this?" Fin speculated.

"Don't we always?"

* * *

Elliot and Olivia walked up the steps to the daughter's apartment, which was in a clean and relatively affluent neighborhood of Newark. They rang the doorbell. Elliot squinted at his notes as they waited. "How do you think this name is pronounced?" 

Olivia read over his shoulder. "Smith?"

"Her _first_ name. Kseniya?"

The door opened, and a short woman with green eyes, red-dyed hair, and a baby balanced on her hip looked at them. "Can I help you?" she asked.

Elliot smiled in greeting. "Mrs. Smith? NYPD." He showed her his badge. "We'd like to ask you a few questions about your father."

She nodded. "Come inside. Please have a seat. Can I get you some coffee?" A stiffness of movement and a catch in her breathing were the only indications of grief. She put her baby in a highchair and poured two cups of coffee without waiting for an answer. "Sugar? Cream?"

"No thanks," Elliot answered.

The detectives sat down at her kitchen table. The woman set the steaming cups of coffee in front of them, and then sat down across the table. She looked the detectives in the eye and asked, "How can I help you find the one who killed my father?"

"Mrs. Smith," Olivia asked gently, "do you know if your father had any enemies? Anyone who might want to hurt him?"

She shook her head. "As far as I know he was well liked at work. He kept to himself a lot, didn't make any close friends or enemies."

"He worked at Lenox Hill Hospital, didn't he?"

She nodded. "As a lab tech. He was a chemist in the Soviet Union. I can't imagine anyone he worked with would want to kill him."

"Did he have any girlfriends?" Elliot asked.

"Not that I know of. Like I said, he kept to himself when he wasn't at work. He was communicating with a woman in Russia online, but it wasn't anything serious."

"What about your mother?" asked Olivia.

"I thought that might come up," Kseniya said. "And I don't think my mother would have killed him. They always got along, even during the divorce."

"Why did they divorce?"

She shrugged. "There were a lot of reasons. I think they weren't really in love anymore. The spark went out of their marriage years ago, but they stayed together until my brother went to college."

"How is your relationship with your parents?" Elliot inquired.

"It's good. I keep in touch with both of them." She closed her eyes and amended, "At least I did."

"Do you mind if I use your bathroom?" Elliot asked.

"Not at all. It's at the end of the hall across the living room." She pointed the way.

Elliot left Olivia to finish the interview. The living room was clean and uncluttered. The inconspicuous paintings hanging on the walls seemed to blend in with the wallpaper, which was a warm shade of reddish brown, and there were a number of houseplants near the windows. He also noticed a child peeking out from behind a sofa. Elliot crouched down and looked into the chubby little girl's eyes, which were swollen and dripping with silent tears. "Hey," he said. "What's your name?"

"Alya," she answered softly. "Granpapa's dead."

"I'm sorry about that. Do you know how he died?"

"I asked Mommy, and she said someone hurt him very badly."

"Do you know anyone who might have wanted to hurt your granpapa?"

She shook her head again. "He was so nice. He gave me a teddy bear for my birfday. I asked Mommy if he's ever coming back, and she said he's not ever coming back. Is that true?"

Elliot had to swallow the lump in his throat before he could answer. "If that's what your Mommy tells you, yeah."

"Will the person who hurt him hurt me too?" she asked with wide, frightened eyes.

"No. I promise I'm going to find that person and make sure they never hurt anyone else."

* * *

Fin and Munch knocked on the son's dorm room door. Loud music blared from inside, but it fell silent after a few louder knocks. 

"Who is it?" someone called through the door.

"Detectives Munch and Tutuola, NYPD. Temir Petrov? We're here to ask you a few questions."

The door cracked open and a young man peeked out. The red of his bloodshot eye contrasted sharply with the green of his iris. Fin held up his badge for inspection. The door opened enough to admit them.

The room was divided into two sides marked by different styles of decor and different levels of clutter. "Where's your roommate?" Munch asked.

"I asked him to go to the library for a while...after I got the phone call." He sat down on his bed and sniffled. "Who would want to kill my dad? He never did anything to anyone. It makes no sense."

"That's what we're trying to figure out," Fin replied.

Munch picked up what looked like a family portrait on the table. "Is this your mother?" he asked, pointing to a middle-aged woman with short black hair and green eyes.

"Yeah," the distraught young man answered.

"Do you know where we can find her?"

He looked confused. "She isn't at her apartment?"

"We haven't been able to find an address for her."

"I guess you wouldn't. She moved in to one of her co-worker's apartments after the divorce. The coworker moved to Florida with her boyfriend a couple of weeks ago. The apartment might still be in her name. I can give you the address and phone number." He jotted the information down on a piece of scratch paper and handed it to Munch. "I guess no one's told Mom yet. I don't know how she'll take it."

"We'll break it to her gently," Munch told him. "We have experience with this kind of thing."

Fin gave the young man an intense, intimidating look. "How did your mom and dad get along?"

He stared at them for a long second. "You think my _mom_ did this?" he asked angrily.

"Just a standard question," Munch assured him.

Temir took a calming breath. "I understand; you don't know my mom and you have to suspect everyone. I know you guys have a job to do, so I'm sorry if I come across as insensitive, but my dad just died!"

"We appreciate your understanding," Fin said, sounding almost but not quite sympathetic.

When they walked out the door, Munch called Cragen to tell him they had the ex's address and were on their way to check it out.

* * *

They got back to the precinct an hour later. 

"Nobody home," Fin explained. "She must've already skipped town."

"I'm not surprised. She didn't put much effort into covering her tracks. The prints from the murder weapon came back; they're all hers," Cragen said.

Casey Novak walked in. "I'll get you a warrant by tomorrow. This looks like an open-and-shut case."

"You're right. What are we missing?" Munch replied, half-joking.

A woman walked in. Munch and Fin recognized her instantly from the family photo in Temir's dorm: the ex-wife, Serim Araizhanova. "Excuse me," she said in a thick Russian accent. "I heard you're looking for me for questioning in my ex-husband's murder?"

They all stared at her.

"So, here I am," she concluded.


	2. The Suspect

Chapter 2: The Suspect

Elliot and Olivia sat across from the victim's ex wife and their main suspect, Serim Araizhanova, in the interrogation room.

"You're sure you understand the consequences of waiving your right to a lawyer?" Elliot asked.

"I was a defense attorney in the Soviet Union; I can represent myself," the woman responded.

"Fine." He stood up and leaned over the table. "Can you tell us why you killed your husband, Ms. Araizhanova?" Elliot had practiced pronouncing her name beforehand, but he still put the stress on the wrong syllables. Serim didn't correct him.

"I did not kill my _ex-_husband," she replied. "I have no idea who did, but I had no reason to."

"Witnesses saw you arguing with him the day before he was murdered," said Olivia.

"I noticed someone following me. I suspected it vwas a private investigator hired by my ex-husband."

"Why would you're ex hire an investigator to follow you?"

"I don't know. That's what I vwas asking him about. He denied it."

"Give it up; we know you killed him. We found the murder weapon with your fingerprints all over it."

"That's not possible," she stated flatly. "I did not kill him."

"Well, the evidence tells us you did," Olivia said. She added more sympathetically, "I understand how it could have happened: you went to his apartment, maybe to spend the night, you got in an argument, and it got out of hand. You didn't mean to kill him, but unless you tell us exactly what happened there's nothing we can do for you."

The suspect looked at her coolly. "I get it." She pointed at Olivia. "Good cop," then at Elliot, "bad cop."

Elliot gave Olivia one of his looks. "We've got enough to convict you without your confession," he informed Serim. "The sentence will be a lot better if we get your side of the story."

"What did he do to you to make you angry enough to cut off his testicles?" Olivia asked.

Serim's eyes widened. "They cut off his _testicles?" _she whispered in evident shock.

"No, _you _cut off his testicles," Elliot stated.

"I...didn't...kill…him. I didn't even know he was dead until Kseniya called me."

"You don't seem too broken up about his death; you haven't shed a tear," Olivia commented.

"He vwas my _ex _husband. The last few years of our marriage vweren't exactly...amicable. But I never vwould have killed him. He was thze father of my children!"

Olivia decided to take a different approach. "Why did you and Yermolai Petrov get divorced?"

Serim didn't look happy, though few people were under such circumstances. She glanced around the room before answering. "Our relationship was never the same after we moved to America. He vwas unhappy with his job, he missed his family in Russia. He vwas what you might call passive-aggressive. He started cheating on me with prostitutes, staying out at bars late, spending my money vwithout consulting me. We kept up an act for our children's sake, but we were both relieved when the divorce was finalized. Believe me when I tell you I had no motive to kill him."

"Where were you at one a.m. the night before last?"

"I vwas home, asleep, like people are supposed to be at one a.m."

"Were you alone?" Olivia inquired.

Serim sighed. "Yes. I don't have an alibi. But I still didn't kill him."

Fin walked in at that point. "Then how did your fingerprints get on this?" He dropped the bloody copper pipe on the table in front of her.

She stared at it. "I...I think this is the pipe I replaced at my work last week. Several of my coworkers saw me taking it out. Ask them. Ask my boss. He saw me throw it out in the garbage. Here." she turned it over within its evidence bag. "This is the same one. It has a crack along its length. It vwas leaking. My fingerprints would have gotten on it when I took it out."

"But there were no other fingerprints on it," Fin pointed out. "Even if your story checks out, it only proves you had _access _to the murder weapon. Sure you don't want that lawyer?"

She glared at him. "I say again, I had no reason to kill Yermolai! And while you're wasting your time trying to prove that I did it, the real killer is out covering their track."

"Witnesses put you at the scene," Elliot divulged.

"They couldn't have, because I wasn't there. Someone must be trying to frame me."

"Why would someone want to do that?" asked Olivia.

She raised the pitch of her voice; her tone became a mix of frantic and pleading. "I don't know. Why would someone want to kill Yermolai?"

* * *

On the other side of the mirror, Cragen, Munch, Novak, and Dr. Huang watched the exchange. 

"What do you think, Doc?" Munch asked.

Huang had his hand on his chin. He had the expression of focusing intensely on one person and blocking out the room around him. "If she's telling the truth about being an attorney, she must realize the evidence is stacked against her. But she walked in; as though she's sure she'll be proven innocent. Are we sure she is who she says she is?"

"Serim Araizhanova, the victim's ex. Her fingerprints match the ones on immigration records and the murder weapon."

"But we don't know if that's the identity she had before she came to America. I'd say she's either innocent, or she's lying about her legal experience. Or maybe she's challenging us by turning herself in. In any case, she's not going to confess."

"Her claim of being framed could sound like reasonable doubt to a jury," Novak said. "We have a warrant for her apartment. Let's see if we can find a motive."

* * *

Munch and Fin returned to her apartment. For how old the building was, the apartment was remarkably clean, though the dark brown color scheme and low light from small windows made it far from cozy. The carpet was frayed in multiple patches. There were two bedrooms. One was empty except for a bare mattress and empty chest of drawers. In Serim's bedroom, besides a twin-size bed, a desk, and drawers, all they found was a fireproof safe containing legal documents and about two hundred dollars in cash. Fin found a few other non-incriminating items in a closet, including a small camera, a personal vibrator, and a credit card bill. Most of the charges were to restaurants, and, judging by the money spent at each, she usually ate alone. In the living room was an old sofa, a small TV, and a bookshelf half full of books. 

"This lady was even more of a monk than you," Fin remarked.

"She definitely traveled light," Munch agreed. He looked over the books on the shelf. Most of them were written in Russian, though a few were in English.

"Not even a computer. Maybe she was plannin' on disappearing, didn't want to waste money on stuff she'd have to leave behind." He found a picture of a much-younger Serim, with long hair, a tattered hat, and a heavy overcoat a couple of sizes too big. In the background was an industrial city cloaked in snow. "She does look more Asian than Russian," he remarked.

"Well, most of Russia is _in _Asia," Munch pointed out. "There are a lot of people in Russia who aren't ethnically Russian: Tatars, Inuits, Koreans, Jews. Judging by her books _Photographic Guide to Kazakhstan _and _History of Kazakhstan_, I'm guessing she might be Kazakh. She also has _Dr. Zhivago_, a Russian translation of Shakespeare's plays, and a lot of history books. And look at this." Munch pulled a photo album off the shelf. Fin came over as he opened it and began leafing through the pages. There were captions beneath each photo, written in the Russian Cyrillic script. "'Kseniya as the queen in high school production of _Hamlet,_' 'Kseniya's graduation,' 'Temir's fifteenth birthday,' 'Temir's junior prom,' 'Family portrait at Central Park.'" He flipped to the last filled page, then thumbed through a few preceding pages. Mixed in with photos of family gatherings were pictures of New York cityscapes, some of which were quite good. But the family photos far outnumbered them. He paused at one picture of Yermolai and Serim holding their newborn grandson between them, both proud grandparents smiling. Yermolai was a pudgy man with blue eyes and a receding hairline of light brown hair. Serim looked older. Her short black hair was streaked with white. Her washed-out green eyes stared from the photo with a complicated mix of joy and wariness. The lines of her thin face didn't all look like they came from smiling. "The suspect and the victim look a lot friendlier than I would with any of my exes."

"Maybe that's the problem. Just because they weren't living together doesn't mean they weren't still screwing."

"Have you considered that just maybe she really is being framed?"

"Let me guess: this is all just a conspiracy by the Russian mafia, the CIA, and Wal-Mart to stop a dangerous camera-totin' granny."

"Maybe we should be focusing on the victim. What do we really know about him? How do we know he wasn't with the mafia, or a Russian spy, or..."

"Or secretly a real ladies' man. We don't, but we gotta go with the evidence, or no cases would ever get solved."

"She wouldn't go across town and beat her husband to death with a pipe without a motive. We should search the victim's apartment again."

"You can if you want," Fin said. "But I'm not going to keep digging in the one easy case of the month, and I'm getting off work early tonight."

"What, do you have a date to get ready for?"

"Yeah, as a matter a fact I do. That really so hard to believe?"

Munch didn't comment.

They then searched the kitchen, finding nothing more suspicious than a cupboard of kids' breakfast cereals. In the bathroom he found a few bottles of over-the-counter meds and vitamins; soaps, lotions, and shampoo in a wide assortment of fragrances; towels in an eclectic assortment of colors and patterns; a few silver earrings (no gold); the usual toiletries.

Munch dropped Fin off at the precinct, then went to the victim's apartment.

Yermolai had more possessions than his ex wife, including a computer that had already been taken in for evidence; a collection of old video tapes, mostly comedies; a pile of e-mail print-outs in Russian that he kept in his bedroom (Munch skimmed through them: mostly from family, but a few from a woman named Darya who sounded increasingly less interested as time went on); a stack of calendars dating back to 1992 on which he'd written short notes on the days that anything interesting happened, which was about once a week. The current calendar, which Munch read through entirely, had nothing but a few incidences at work and one-sentence anecdotes about his grandchildren. But on the day he died, he'd written, "Serim visits. First fight since divorce."

After satisfying himself that there was nothing else at Yermolai's apartment, Munch went to the hospital where the vic worked to talk to his coworkers. He learned that Yermolai never mentioned his ex wife unless he was discussing his children and grandchildren, he had no known girlfriend, no one at work had any kind of grudge against him, he was an okay guy. One thing that stood out was that no one knew why he and his family left Russia.

He then went to the high school where the suspect worked as a janitor. A teacher and two cafeteria workers remembered her taking out the leaky pipe. Once again, no enemies, no significant other, no idea why she left Russia. She spoke about her ex with the indifference of a polite associate, which apparently hadn't changed the entire decade she had worked there, even before and during the divorce.

* * *

Back at the office, Munch contacted Immigration to find out what they knew about the Petrov family. Then he talked to Cragen. "I want to interview Araizhanova," he said. 

"Why?" Cragen asked in surprise.

"I'm not so sure this murder was about killing Yermolai Petrov, I think the murderer's main purpose might have been putting Araizhanova in prison."

Cragen looked instantly skeptical. "What are you basing this on?"

"Only Yermolai Petrov and his two children immigrated in 1990. Serim didn't get to America until a year later."

"Maybe they didn't have the money to all come together."

"I don't think so. Petrov was granted political asylum. I think whatever Araizhanova was doing for that year put her family in danger."

"What do you imagine that could have been?"

"I don't know. That's what I want to ask her about."

Cragen sighed. "You're just going to give her more ammunition for her 'I'm being framed' defense."

"Captain, what if she is being framed?"

"All the evidence indicates she did it."

"Exactly! It's too perfect. There's too much evidence, like someone went out of their way to implicate her. Does she really seem stupid enough to put the murder weapon right outside the crime scene?"

"The fact remains that no evidence points to anyone _but _her. No one else was seen at the crime scene, no other fingerprints were found. But your a good officer, you've been a cop for longer than almost anyone here. If your instincts tell you there's more to this case than meets the eye, then there probably is. Interview her for background, but try to avoid giving her any ideas. Don't turn this into some kind of conspiracy theory."

"Would I do that?" Munch asked with a smile.


	3. The Mirror

Chapter 3: The Mirror

Munch sat across the table from Serim Araizhanova. It was nearly midnight. He had hoped the lateness of the hour would make the suspect more forthcoming, but by the look of her, that seemed unlikely.

Serim looked Munch in the eye, calculating, suspicious.

Munch sized her up, as well. If she was tired, the sharpness in her pale eyes hid it.

"Why did you ask to see me, Detective? I thought you already had all the answers."

"We still don't have motive," he said carefully.

"You won't get that from me. I had none."

"Why did you come here when you found out your ex was dead?"

"Kseniya said you were looking for me. Contrary to what you may believe, I'm not stupid: I know how suspicious it would look if I disappeared right after my ex husband's murder."

"We tried to reach you at your apartment. You weren't there."

"I go to work at six in the morning. After work, I went to a hotel."

"Why did you go to a hotel?"

"I didn't want to go home. I thought I vwas being followed."

"What made you think you were being followed?"

The thin lines of her face tightened. "At first I thought I vwas being paranoid. I vwould see someone, and then I vwould see the same person an hour later. One night I saw someone going through my garbage, and she didn't look homeless."

"A lot of people look through garbage for financial information they use to steal people's identities," Munch pointed out.

"I know. I'm very careful about that. I use junk mail as toilet paper."

"I didn't actually need to know that."

She gave him a condescending half-smile. "I didn't actually mean it literally."

"The person you thought was following you, did you get a good enough look at her to give a description?"

"The woman in the garbage, no. It vwas dark, and she wore a hat. The people I thought were following me, I saw one of them. He looked in his fifties. White. Not fat, but..." she held her hands out to indicate his approximate girth, "plump. Black hair. I didn't see his face close enough for a sketch, though."

"Not much to go on," he said.

She scoffed. "Does it matter? You don't believe me anyway."

Munch wasn't sure how to respond to this, because the truth was that he did, but Cragen instructed him not to reveal that. But then, he considered, they lied to suspects all the time; what was the harm in telling her the truth if everyone, probably including her, thought it was a lie? "Actually, I do. I think you're too smart to have left so much evidence and then turned yourself in if you're really guilty."

"Right," she said. "You think I never used that same tactic to get to my clients, pretending to believe them, pretending to be their friend to get them to reveal something?"

"I thought you said you were a defense attorney. Did it matter to you if your clients were innocent or guilty?"

She chuckled. "It vwas the Soviet Union. I worked for the Party. The official aim of our trials was to get to the truth, not to protect the client. And disagreement with communist ideology could be used as grounds for an insanity defense."

He saw an opening and took it. "Why did your family leave the Soviet Union?"

"It's a long story."

"We've got all night," he replied.

"It vwas my understanding that in America, 'it's a long story' is code for 'I don't vant to talk about it.'"

"Is it possible that someone you knew back then could be behind your husband's murder?"

Her eyes took on an unfocused look. "No one who could find me here," she said in Russian.

"How do you know?" he asked, also in Russian. A moment later he realized it would have been better not reveal that he understood her yet.

Serim looked at him with surprise for a moment. Then she stood up. "As my own lawyer, I'm advising my client that we're done for the night."

Munch beat her to the door and blocked it. "Leaving already? But I thought we were having such a good time."

She glared at him. "I have the right to remain silent, Detective."

"Do you want us to find you ex's killer or not?"

She spoke in Russian again. "If someone wanted to hurt me, why would they kill my ex husband instead of me?"

"Maybe they want to make you suffer first. Who is it?"

"I don't believe any of them are involved. If they are, then as long as I'm in here my children are safe. If they want to frame me then they can't kill anyone else as long as I'm locked up."

"Let me help you. Tell me who you suspect."

"I can't." She switched to English. "Vwe're done here, Detective."

"If you don't tell me what you know, the person who killed the father of your children gets away with it. Is that what you want?"

From the diamond-hard look in her eyes, he knew he wouldn't be getting anything more out of her that night.

"And if they really want to hurt you, they'll go after your children even if you are behind bars. Think about it," he said, then opened the door for her. Serim brushed against him as she left.

* * *

Munch didn't get to his apartment until after 2 a.m., not that the late hour was unusual. After taking a shower, he stared at his face in the mirror. When had he gotten so old? He sometimes thought about retirement, but he knew it would never happen. He couldn't leave the job: someone had to stop criminals, and he was good at it. And it was all he had. But tonight he felt...inadequate. Old. And so very alone. 


	4. Entanglement

Chapter 4: Entanglement

"The People request remand, Your Honor. The suspect is fluent in at least three languages; we believe she may pose a flight risk," Casey Novak argued before Judge Petrovsky.

"Your Honor, I am not a flight risk," Serim countered. "I have limited funds, my only living relatives are in the area, and most importantly I have a deep respect for American laws and justice. Let's not forget that I villingly turned myself in to the police. I'm not going anywhere."

* * *

The SVU squad room was as busy as usual: Olivia was taking the statement of a seventeen-year-old victim of date rape, Fin was on the phone with one of his old friends from Narcotics, Elliot and Munch were filling out paperwork. 

Casey came in to talk to Cragen. "The search warrant for the Bailey case," she said, handing over the document.

"Thanks. How did it go with the Petrov case today?"

"Araizhanova got out on bail. You should've heard her talk about her respect for law, justice, and the American Way in the courtroom. For someone who beat and castrated her ex to death..."

"_Allegedly_ beat and castrated her ex to death," Munch corrected. "She really asked for bail?"

"Of course. Why shouldn't she? She might as well enjoy her last few weeks of freedom before the jury puts her away for the rest of her life."

"We still don't know she's guilty."

"Munch, do you really buy her crap about being framed?"

"I don't buy the crap that a sexagenarian walked across town in the middle of the night with a copper pipe and beat a younger man to death without an obvious motive."

Cragen reminded him, "Nothing suggests another suspect, and no one else seems to have as much motive as the ex wife."

"Isn't it possible," Munch argued, "that someone from Araizhanova's past killed Petrov in order to get to her?"

"Then they're pretty good at hiding it. No one saw anyone else leave his apartment that night."

"But no one got a good look at the woman's face; it could be someone dressed as Araizhanova. Doesn't it bother you that we never found a trace of his blood on any of her clothes?"

"Not like clothes are hard to dump," Fin commented.

"If she were smart enough to dump her clothes, why did she leave the murder weapon?"

"She was probably in a panic when she dumped the murder weapon," Olivia suggested. "Later, she would have been thinking more clearly, and realized she needed to hide the evidence."

"Consider," Munch continued, "no blood found in the victim's bathroom, no blood found in the suspect's bathroom. Where, in the middle of the night, did she go to wash the blood off?"

"You consider," Elliot countered, "the suspect's fingerprints found at the scene, her argument with the victim earlier that day, a witness seeing her out the window after the attack."

"The witness saw a woman from the back in the middle of the night. We don't know that was Araizhanova. We don't even know for sure if that was the killer." He added, "Plus, she's over sixty years old. You think she was strong enough to beat someone to death with a pipe?"

"You could," Fin stated.

"Not without a mark to show for it. The victim had defensive bruises on his arms; he fought back. Why didn't Serim have a mark on her when she came in?"

Cragen spoke up. "Munch has a good point. Remember that in America the suspect's innocent until proven guilty. Munch, in my office."

Once behind closed doors, Cragen turned to face him with a frown. "You know we never go for an easy close, but the truth is, the evidence does implicate this woman, and we have other cases that need our attention."

Munch shook his head, more in confusion than negation. "My gut tells me that she didn't do it."

Cragen paused. "Are you sure it's your gut?"

"What are you implying?"

He sighed. "You're getting too involved in this case. I wouldn't expect that from you, at least not over a case like this. What do you see in this woman?"

"Innocence," he replied.

* * *

Munch once again looked around at the crime scene. He examined the chalk outline of the victim on the floor. "Okay," he spoke aloud to himself as he began to jot his thoughts down in a notebook. "Things that still don't make sense: number one, motive." He began pacing, looking over the apartment. His eyes fell on the door. He walked over to it. "Number two, the chain on the door isn't broken. No forced entry, but earlier that day he didn't let Serim in." He walked back to the body, contemplating the bloodspots on the floor. He pictured how the murder might have happened in his mind. Petrov let someone in; she begins clubbing him with a pipe. "Number three," he said, "why did he let her inside his house with a large pipe?" He opened the door and looked at the hall. "She must have left the pipe in the hall, at some point stepped out and picked it up...Someone he knew," he said to himself. "Maybe a girlfriend. At least he thought she was. She was younger than him. Stronger. She held the pipe higher up than Serim would have, giving her swings less force, but more accuracy. She would already be wearing a wig, leaving behind no stray hairs. Was it personal? I don't think so. But she would have wanted to make it look like it. A professional killer. 

"She wouldn't have been carrying a purse. The witness saw her in an overcoat. She probably didn't take it off when she did the beating. She had the knife in a pocket. Her gloves would have been leather; something with a good grip. There would have been blood on the gloves, but there was no blood on the door handle. The first responders found the door open; she must have left the door slightly open during the attack. It would have made the attack easier to hear, but she was willing to take that risk."

Munch went through the bathroom medicine cabinet again, then searched the victim's bedroom. He finally found what he was looking for stuffed between the bed and the wall: an unopened box of condoms.

"He knew she was coming," he said. "She worked up to this. She hunted him, seduced him, then killed him. Sounds like a couple of my exes."

He looked around again. He felt like he'd been over every inch of the apartment. "If she was a hired gun, she would have been careful. No one in the building saw anyone besides Serim visit the victim. No one at work knew he had a girlfriend. That doesn't make sense; this is the kind of guy who would have bragged to everyone about seeing a younger woman. Or any woman."

His frown deepened as he tried to remember back to the night of the murder. The man's wallet had been on the coffee table, but nothing had been taken from it. "He was planning on paying her: a prostitute. That explains why he didn't tell his coworkers about her. But a prostitute would have taken the wallet and wouldn't have tried to frame his ex wife. Once again, I'm forced to return to the conclusion of a professional assassin. The modus operandi was probably special-ordered by whoever hired her. Only Serim might know who that person is. If only I could get her to talk..."

* * *

Munch took a cab from the crime scene to Serim's apartment. He intended to interrogate her again, informally. 

She was home. "Detective. What a surprise. Perhaps I should report you for harassment?"

"You can do that later. Right now, I'd like to talk to you about the case."

"I really don't think there's any more I can tell you."

"Maybe not," he said. "I heard you like eating out. I know a good Japanese restaurant not far from here. Do you like sushi?"

"Is this ethical?" she asked skeptically.

"Do you want a free dinner or not?"

"There's an American saying about there being no free lunches."

"Notice I'm not taking you to lunch."

"I don't think the lunch part vwas the point."

Munch sighed. "I understand you don't trust me, Ms. Araizhanova, but unless we get evidence that you're innocent, you're going to jail."

She stared at him, trying to discern his agenda. "I really didn't kill him," she stated.

"Then what are you afraid of?"

Without looking convinced, she got her coat and followed him out into the overcast evening. Grumbles of distant thunder echoed in the dark blue clouds that dimly reflected the city lights. Whether it would rain or not was anyone's guess.

Munch and Serim got in a cab that took them to a moderately classy place called Hitomaro's.

"You're usual table, Mr. Munch?" asked the young maitre d'.

"Yes please."

As they were led to the small table in quiet corner near the back, Serim whispered, "No offense, but I didn't take you as a sushi person."

"I'm full of surprises. But I really come here for the sake. Best sake in town; you have to try some."

She gave him a strange look. "Thank you, Detective. It's good to know some people don't just assume I like vodka because I'm Russian." The look might have been some sort of gratitude.

Munch smiled. The great sake—specifically the hope that it would make the suspect more communicative—was the reason he'd chosen this restaurant. Alcohol: the original truth serum.

As they ate their sushi and drank their sake, Munch asked her questions about her two grandchildren, trying to gain her trust and make her more talkative.

"You know, I love my children very much, but sometimes I think people only have children to get to grandchildren. There's nothing better than having bright, charming, full of energy children that someone else takes care of."

"I wouldn't know."

"You don't have any children, Detective?"

"No, I don't. And you can call me John."

"I can call you John, but it's a free country and I choose to call you Detective."

"You're an interesting woman."

She rested her elbows on the table and folded her hands beneath her chin. "Da."

"I've known other Russians who say 'da' even though it's one of the first words they learn in English. Does it give you some kind of sense of solidarity with your old country to say 'yes' in you're native language?"

"I'm not saying 'yes,' I'm saying your English word, 'da.' As in 'You are stupid, da.'" She smiled at him.

He laughed and pretended to drink some sake. She did the same.

"This is very good," she commented.

"Thanks. I made it myself."

She rolled her eyes and expertly lifted another sushi roll to her lips with her chopsticks.

"One thing still doesn't make sense," he said casually, "If you're afraid your children could be in danger from whoever killed your ex, why did you ask for bail?"

She stiffened. "I know what you're trying to do, Detective: get me to let my guard down and tell you something incriminating. It won't work."

"That's not what I'm trying to do," he said honestly. "But if I'm going to find out the truth about your ex's murder, I need to know who would want to hurt you bad enough to kill him."

"How can you be so sure I was the target?"

"A hunch. I also believe you suspect who's behind it."

She leaned in intimately and whispered, "I still don't trust you." She stood up. "Thank you for dinner, Detective. Perhaps I can repay it sometime."

"Wait." He grabbed her arm to keep her from walking away. "I'll take you home."

She didn't try to pull away. "I'm a big girl now; I can get there on my own," she said pleasantly.

He wasn't sure what to say, or why it meant so much to him to get to the truth. "For how much this interrogation is costing me, I think I have at least an hour left."

Serim waited as he paid the bill. They walked out into a cold and greasy night rain. Munch stepped to the curb to hail a cab, but the cab drove by without slowing, splashing him with water from the gutter. Serim laughed.

"What's so funny?" he asked, irritated.

"I think that should be quite obvious," she said, still smiling.

The next cab pulled over. They both climbed in, shivering and dripping wet. "I should have thought of an umbrella," Serim complained.

They didn't talk for a few minutes after Serim gave the cabbie their destination.

"This is the quietest interrogation I've ever endured," she said. "Except for this once in 1980…which I'd rather not talk about."

"I'm hoping the pressure will get to you and you'll confess."

"You think just being in the same car with you is torture?"

"A couple of my ex wives seemed to think so."

"How many wives have you had?"

"Too many."

"I learned my lesson after just one. Marriage is not a mistake I'll be making again. Are you married now?"

"Not even close."

The cab stopped at her building. When Munch followed her out of the car, she gave him an impatient look. "Are you stalking me now?"

"I've still got a half hour left in my interrogation. Just think of it as a suspect protection program."

"That's a euphemism for oppression if I've ever heard one. And I've heard a lot."

They reached her door. She looked down at Munch's muddy clothes. "You should come in and get yourself cleaned up."

Munch went into her kitchen, grabbed a handful of paper towels, and wiped off as much of the mud as he could. When he went back to the living room, he didn't immediately see Serim. After a moment, he heard water running in the bathroom. The door was ajar. He took a few steps closer until he could see her reflection in the mirror. She was brushing her teeth.

"The truth is, I'm worried about you, Serim," he called. "Whoever framed you, I think they might try something else while you're out."

She spat the toothpaste into the sink. "Or are you worried that _I'll_ try something else while I'm out?"

"You still don't believe that I think you're innocent?"

"I probably vwouldn't if I were in your place," she admitted. "I'm going to take a shower. If you want another look around my house for evidence, go ahead. That's what you're really here for, isn't it?" She closed the door without giving him a chance to answer.

He sighed. For someone who'd turned herself in to the police, she was very distrustful. Probably the result of living most of her life in the USSR. Knowing fully that he wouldn't find anything, he began half-heartedly looking around the apartment. He flipped through the pages of her books, opened the drawers in the kitchen, lifted up the cushions of her sofa.

"If you find my remote controller, let me know."

He looked up at Serim, who stood in the bathroom doorway wearing a light green bathrobe, her wet hair shining silver and black.

"The last time I lost my remote, I tried to get the CIA to find it for me by calling in an anonymous tip that Bin Laden was hiding in my couch cushions. They still haven't shown up to look."

"Vwas that supposed to be a joke?"

"My coworkers don't always appreciate my wry sense of humor, either."

Serim walked over and sat down beside him. "It's very late," she noted. "I don't know much about American rules, but I think it vwould not be very good for you if your boss knew you were at a suspect's house this time of night."

"Not at all."

"I guess it's a good thing neither of us finds the other attractive_, da?"_

He suddenly became aware of how close her lips were to his. She wasn't the kind of woman he would consider his type; she was older than he usually found attractive, but she was definitely his intellectual equal, and he couldn't deny that her closeness was causing his body to respond.

"A very good thing," he said.

Their lips touched. He closed his eyes. He knew he shouldn't be doing this, and he told himself to stop, but his body wouldn't obey his mind. He didn't move for what felt like a long time, but when she pulled away he decided the kiss only lasted a few seconds.

"If you're so worried about me, stay and guard me. I'll even leave my bedroom door open."

She went to bed, and he remained sitting on the sofa, paralyzed with indecision. He knew he should leave, but he wanted to stay. The thought of returning to the loneliness of his apartment was unbearable. If anyone knew he'd spent the night at her apartment, they would assume he slept with her, so what did it matter whether he slept with her or not?

Finally, at about four in the morning, he fell asleep, and awoke an hour later from Serim's alarm clock. They didn't say anything to each other until Serim was walking out the door. "I'm going to work. Lock the door when you leave."

He left a few minutes later, going back to his own apartment to get ready for his shift. He had to drink four cups of coffee before he could think straight, and decided it would be a bad day.


	5. The Letter

Chapter 5: The Letter

"You're late, Munch," Cragen complained.

"Traffic. Unavoidable. I hope I didn't miss anything interesting."

"We got a complication in the Petrov case," Elliot said.

This got Munch's attention. "What?"

"There was a fireat the crime scene last night," said Olivia.

"Arson is strongly suspected," Fin added.

"The arson squad found what looks like the remains of a letter where the fire started," Cragen said. "They're trying to put it together, but they can already tell it's written in Russian."

"Do they have any idea when the fire started?" Munch asked.

"A little after midnight. That's when the alarm went off."

"Then it couldn't have been Serim."

"Why not?" Cragen asked.

Munch hesitated. If he told the truth—that he was at the suspect's apartment kissing her when the crime occurred—he could be out of a job. It was more than a conflict of interests, it was a blight on his integrity as an investigator. "Serim's too smart to torch the crime scene the day she's released on bail." It was true, just not the whole truth.

"People do stupid things when they're in love," Olivia stated. "I think we should wait to see what that letter says before we reach any conclusions."

"You're right," Munch said.

* * *

The letter, once it had been painstakingly reconstructed from ashes and translated into English, read as follows:

_My dear Serim,_

_I'm sorry about this. I know you never gave up hope that you and I could be reconciled, but I'm in love with someone else. We both need to accept that this is best for everyone. I've proposed to her, and she accepted._

_Please, Serim, for the sake of the children, the happiness of myself and my future wife, and your own health, don't do anything regrettable. I beg you._

_Sincerely,_

_Yermolai

* * *

_

"Sure, that doesn't sound planted at all," Munch said sarcastically when he heard what the letter said.

"Give it up," Fin said.

"None of the evidence in this case has been too convincing. I can't believe I'm the only one who sees that." He looked at Olivia, who glanced away, then at Cragen, who shook his head slightly.

"That's for a jury to decide. We've done our jobs, gathered the evidence, arrested the suspect. As far as we're concerned, this case is closed. There are other matters that require your attention, Munch."

After a moment's hesitation, Munch opened his mouth.

"I don't want to hear another of your conspiracy theories right now," Cragen snapped.

Munch shut his mouth and looked down. Had he been about to confess? He wasn't sure, but his courage had been broken. He would have to find a way to clear Serim without ruining his career.


	6. The Trial

Chapter 6: The Trial

It had been a mistake for Serim Araizhanova to insist on representing herself, not that she would have had much of a chance if she had the best lawyer in the city. Her grasps of the English language and American law weren't exactly firm, and she didn't present the grandmotherly image Novak was sure she was going for.

"You're also charged with arson, disturbing a crime scene, and evidence tampering. I don't suppose you have anyone who could confirm your alibi for the night of the fire at the victim's apartment?"

"I don't have a boyfriend or a roommate, and my family and friends don't spend the night at my apartment. I vwas home, in bed, alone, asleep. Sorry."

"It's a simple yes or no question, Ms. Araizhanova," Novak said.

Serim glanced at the twelve jurors listening intently to her answer, then she scanned the courtroom until her eyes settled on one person, seated inconspicuously near the back. "I've given my answer," she stated.

"No further questions, your honor."

* * *

She walked out of the courtroom into the afternoon sunlight. Munch, who had been leaning against a column on the courtroom steps, caught up with her. "How did it go?"

"The jury took longer than I expected, but they gave a guilty verdict," Casey replied. "Araizhanova didn't leave them much choice. She didn't have a verifiable alibi for either the night of the murder or the night of the arson." She noticed the look of disappointment, but not surprise, on Munch's face.

"If you cared about this trial so much, why didn't you watch it?"

"I couldn't. I know she's innocent, Casey."

She looked at him sympathetically, but said, "It's over, John."

He turned and walked away without replying.

* * *

Munch looked at his reflection in the glass. His image sickened him; it was more than just guilt. He never would have thought he was capable of something like this. He'd always considered himself a man of principle, someone who would give up his life, much less his job, for a just cause.

Movement on the other side of the glass broke his chain of self-deprecating musings. Serim had arrived. She sat down and picked up the phone.

Munch put the phone to his ear. "How are you doing?"

"As well as can be expected," she answered neutrally. "And you?"

"I could be better." The decision to visit her in prison had been a difficult one to make, mostly because he didn't like the idea of facing her after what he did.

"It means a lot that you visit me."

Even now, she didn't seem to be blaming him. He had to be careful about what he said. "You should have asked for a lawyer."

"I had reasons not to."

"You don't belong in here, Serim."

She smiled her bitter little smile. "That's not what the jury thought. America is very different from the Soviet Union in so many ways, but sometimes even here the innocent get sent to jail."

"But it shouldn't happen."

"Nothing is perfect."

He blinked rapidly and looked down. He couldn't meet her eye.

"It's all right, Detective," she insisted. Then added a joke, "Compared to some hotels I've stayed in, I give this place four stars."

He looked up at her and smiled briefly, but couldn't speak. He placed his hand against the glass. Written there was one word: Why?

Serim placed her hand against the glass as well, matching his. "We have to do what we know is right, even if society says it's wrong. I couldn't let a good man suffer if he was guilty of breaking a rule in order to do something his conscience told him was right."

"Conscience can be a pesky thing."

"But it makes us human. The saddest of people are those without regrets. Or maybe these are just the imaginings of a sentimental old woman. I saw someone at the trial who looked very much like a man I knew years ago. It brought back the past to me. Old memories can play tricks like that."

"Yes they can." He realized he was now gazing at her. He pulled his hand back. "I should go now, but I promise I'll see you again, Serim."

"I vwon't hold you to that."

He walked away, feeling loneliness close in around him again as he left her presence.


	7. Avenues of Investigation

Chapter 7: Avenues of Investigation

Munch rang Kseniya Smith's doorbell at seven o'clock in the morning.

A man answered the door. "Can I help you?"

"Mr. Smith? Is your wife here?"

"Who are you?"

Munch showed him his badge. "Detective Munch."

"Honey, there's a cop here to talk to you," he called over his shoulder.

"Tell him to drop dead!" Kseniya shouted back.

Mr. Smith gave Munch a look that was either apologetic or very politely irritated.

Munch talked loud enough for Kseniya to hear. "I just wanted to say I'm sorry about what happened to your mother. I think she's innocent."

Mr. Smith backed away as Kseniya came to the door. Her eyes could have been her mother's, except they were smoldering with anger. "If you believe that, then why is she in prison?"

"Because I have no proof," he replied.

"I thought the burden of proof is supposed to be on the prosecution. You know, that 'innocent until proven guilty' crap."

"We try to catch the guilty, but sometimes innocent people get caught with the same net."

It was the wrong thing to say. Her face hardened and she moved to slam the door.

"But I'm trying to fix this," Munch said quickly. "And I'm hoping you can help me prove she's innocent and get her out."

Kseniya hesitated. "How?"

"I think someone your mother knew in Russia was behind this. Did she ever talk about any enemies?"

"No." She smiled wryly. "Mother was always careful not to bring work home."

"Why did your family leave Russia?"

"I don't know," she answered after a moment. "I think it was a case my mother was working on. My father became very nervous. One night, in the middle of the night, he took Temir and me to a truck that was waiting outside. We didn't even have a chance to pack anything. We drove all night and for hours the next day, most of the way off roads. We didn't stop until we were out of the country. Even after Mother joined us, they never told us why. We never discussed it. I'm sorry." She began to ease the door closed.

Munch handed her his card. "Call me if you remember anything."

She took the card and nodded.

As Munch turned back toward his car, he frowned. Another dead end.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Munch stood with Cragen, Olivia, and Fin as they watched Dr. Huang interview a seven-year-old boy who had been kidnapped only to be returned physically unharmed three days later. Though a medical examination was inconclusive, his parents were sure the child had been sexually assaulted. Unfortunately, the boy wasn't talking.

"Do you like to draw, Kyler?" Huang asked conversationally.

The boy shook his head in a vigorous negation. He sat with his knees pulled up to his chin, his big blue eyes downcast.

"Really? What kinds of things do you like to do? Do you play sports?"

Kyler lowered his head and shook it slowly, almost shamefully.

"Do you watch TV?"

"Yeah," he whispered barely audible.

"What's your favorite show?"

Kyler kept his head down, but glanced up at Huang. "A cartoon called Batman."

Huang nodded sagely. "Did you watch Batman where you went last week?"

Kyler looked down again and didn't answer.

"What did you do?"

"Nothing."

"Did someone tell you to say that?"

"No."

The boy's mother, watching this with the detectives, sighed angrily. "He's getting no where. What's taking so long? You're supposed to be figuring out who abused my son!"

"We will, Mrs. Conway," Cragen assured her. "You have to be patient."

Dr. Huang came out. "I'm not picking up any fear from him. I don't think he was threatened; I think he was taken by someone he cares about: a relative or a close friend."

"Who would do that to him?" the mother asked.

"Unfortunately, the majority of sexual abuse is perpetrated by an acquaintance of the victim," Huang said sympathetically. "Fin, I think you should talk to him."

"Me?" Fin said in surprise. "You know talking to kids ain't exactly my thing."

"He was betrayed by someone he trusted. He feels vulnerable, so he's trying to act tough. I think he'll see the qualities he's striving for in you and respond to them."

"I'll give it a shot," Fin agreed.

When he walked in the room, Kyler glanced up quickly, then down again.

"Hey kid. How you doing?"

"Fine," he answered quietly.

"I hear you like Batman."

"Yeah. He's cool."

"What do you like about him?"

Kyler raised his head a little. "He fights bad guys."

"Yeah, that is cool. You know, Kyler, I fight bad guys, too."

Kyler scooted forward, his interest suddenly piqued. "Really?"

"Yeah."

"Cool!"

"You know, some bad guys don't look like bad guys; sometimes they look like sweet old ladies. They can even be people you know, like a teacher or a friend."

Kyler retreated a little bit. "I guess so," he agreed.

"Hey, do you want to help me catch a bad guy?"

They boy sat up straight and looked excited. "Yeah!"

"There's someone who's been stealing little kids from their parents and hurting them, then sending them back. Do you know anything about that?"

"She didn't hurt me!" Kyler insisted.

"Who didn't hurt you?"

"She told me not to tell. She said it wouldn't hurt; she just wanted to hold me. She let me eat whatever I want, and watch TV all day."

Fin hesitated. He wasn't sure if he should push it, or how much he should ask, but he knew Huang was watching and would rush in if he took the interview in the wrong direction. "Did she touch you?"

Kyler looked down. "Yeah. But she said it wouldn't hurt."

"Did it hurt?"

Kyler dropped his chin to his chest and pulled his legs back up. "Not really," he said, barely audibly.

"Okay, okay. Let's talk about something else, 'kay kid?"

"Like what?"

"The woman who took you, you ever see her before?"

"Yeah. She's my babysitter."

Mrs. Conway gasped. "Lisa! I'll kill her!"

Cragen tried to calm her. "We don't know for sure that's the right person. If you give us her address, we'll investigate."

"Of course."

Cragen led her away to get the information. He sent Olivia and Elliot to talk to the babysitter.

"Good call," Munch congratulated Huang. "I wouldn't have guessed he'd open up to Fin."

"Thank you," he said. "Can I talk to you for a moment?"

"Sure," Munch replied uncertainly.

Huang took his arm and led him aside. "Your colleagues are concerned about you. You haven't been taking as much interest in your work as you used to. You seem distracted."

"It's the Petrov case," he admitted. "I know Serim Araizhanova is innocent."

"You sound pretty sure about that," Huang said. "If I didn't know any better, I'd think you know something you're choosing not to tell anyone."

"George, if you consider me your friend at all, you won't ask that question."

Huang nodded. "You held something back, and now you feel guilty. A lot of investigators go through something like this. If you don't come clean, or find some other way to prove her innocence, it's going to hurt your confidence in your abilities as an officer, and ultimately your abilities themselves."

"But there's nothing I can do. I'm sure the answer is in Araizhanova's past in the Soviet Union. Her family was smuggled out of the country, which was a dangerous and difficult thing to do. But the only ones who know why are Petrov, who's dead, and Serim herself, and she won't tell me."

"Really?" Huang thought for a moment. "I might know someone who can help you. He works for the CIA; they may have something on Petrov and Araizhanova."

Munch looked at him, wondering what repercussions accepting the offer could have. "How can I get in touch with him?"

"You can't. I'll set up a meeting. But you have to accept that, whatever you're hiding about this case, the fact that you're still investigating is going to come out, and people might start speculating."

"That's a risk I have to take."

"I'll arrange the meeting," Huang said.


	8. The Moscow Rules

Chapter 8: The Moscow Rules

The meeting place—suggested by his contact, Huang insisted—turned out to be a rather outlandish gay bar. Munch nursed a beer as he waited. He'd been told his contact would be wearing green lipstick and a matching wig, which no longer seemed strange compared to what some of the bar's other patrons were wearing.

"You must be John," a male voice said.

Munch turned. The man with the wig of shoulder-length green curls and apple-green lipstick must have been at least in his late forties. Beneath his makeup, his face was heavily lined.

"I didn't notice you sneak up."

"That's the point. Shall we go somewhere to...talk?"

"What's wrong with here?"

"Contrary to popular belief, bars are not actually the best places for a private conversation."

Munch nodded uncertainly, then followed the green-wigged man out the door to the alley behind the bar. His contact whipped off his wig, wiped the cosmetics off his face, and put on a coat that had been hidden behind a dumpster beside the door. Instantly, he transformed from a flamboyant cross-dresser to a completely forgettable middle-aged man. His car was waiting at the end of the alley.

"Can we talk now?" Munch asked impatiently as the CIA man slowly steered the car away from the curb.

"Yes. I'm as sure as I can be that this car isn't bugged, but I'd still prefer we not use names."

"Okay. Do you know anything that can help me?"

"Maybe. The truth is I really shouldn't be here. Even though the Soviet Union collapsed, there are some people who still want to be careful about revealing anything that could give insight on how the organization works. I'm here because I feel our country owes our friend Ms. Petrova."

"Can I ask why?"

"It's a long story. Two years before the collapse of the USSR, a man living in Moscow came under suspicion as a foreign agent. He was arrested, but the case against him was weak. Ms. Petrova was assigned as his defense attorney. She made a point to know as much as she could about her clients. She did some poking around. To be honest, she was starting to make some people on our end very nervous. It wasn't until a few days after the trial started that we realized she already knew the truth, and was deliberately hiding it from her superiors. One of our agents approached her and learned that she didn't believe her client deserved the punishment he would have suffered if convicted. But her superiors were becoming suspicious of her, too. It soon came to our knowledge that she was being watched by the KGB. We wanted to transfer Ms. Petrova's client out of the country. She agreed to help us on the condition that we got her family out of danger, as well. Once her client disappeared, her complicity could no longer be concealed."

"Why didn't you take her out at the same time?"

"Because we knew what she knew: that she was being watched too closely to escape unobserved. Her family's only chance was if she stayed behind. She was jailed, interrogated repeatedly, quite possibly tortured, but she didn't know enough to be valuable, or a liability. I think she believed she would die there, but a confluence of circumstances cast her absolute guilt into question. Evidence may have come to light that her husband had been involved in unrelated illicit activities that led him to flee the country with his children, letting his wife take the fall, and the patriotism of the prosecutor in the case came into question. Ms. Petrova was eventually released. Three months later, Ms. Petrova left for a visit to her family, and was never seen in Russia again."

"Interesting story," Munch said. He wondered how much of it was true, but it somehow didn't surprise him. "Do you know who might hate our friend Ms. Petrova enough to…want her out of the way?"

"As you may have gathered, that's a long list. Not only were there a lot of devout commies that didn't appreciate her less-than-enthusiastic devotion to their party line, but the prosecutor spent a few months in prison on her account, and there's a large question mark in her file about how she paid for her trip to America. She didn't have the financial means to do it legally."

"But people don't hold grudges like this over an unpaid debt."

"Some people take money very seriously."

"Yes," Munch agreed, "but those people would have just killed her."

"Still, you might want to start there. Trust me, No other line of questioning will prove fruitful." He slowed the car to a stop outside Munch's apartment building. "We know that at least one leg of her journey to America was facilitated by a gemstone magnate named Johan Spijker. His company's records may tell you something. I suggest you look into it. Now please, get out of the car. And remember, this entire conversation—even the fact that we had a conversation—is very strictly off the record."

The moment Munch stepped out of the car, it drove away into the night. Munch was angry. It was obvious, at least to him, who had the most motive to send Serim to prison. All the CIA spook had to do was give him the name of the prosecuting attorney and this would all be over. Instead, what the man had given him amounted to a treasure hunt...or a wild goose chase—some kind of children's game, anyway.


	9. The Lead

Chapter 9: The Lead

It wasn't until the next week that Munch managed to get an appointment at GeoZet, Inc., the company Johan Spijker founded. He'd never heard of it before. They didn't deal with making and marketing jewelry; they sold raw gems to the jewelry companies, which, Munch noted with amusement, made them the middleman he kept hearing about.

He called in sick and went to GeoZet's New York office. It occupied the top floor of a skyscraper, and he had to produce two forms of ID, answer several questions, and endure a frisking before he was even allowed on the elevator.

"I'm John Munch. I have an appointment..." He hoped he wouldn't have to explain further. He didn't even know who would be meeting him. When he was trying to make the appointment, one person he'd talked to on the phone laughed out loud when he said he wanted to speak with Johan Spijker.

He was asked for ID again, then the receptionist called him in.

A nearby door opened, and a young woman poked her head out. "Detective Munch, I presume?"

"In the flesh," he replied.

"Come in. Sit down."

He did. The office was sparsely furnished. It looked like it wasn't occupied on a regular basis. It lacked photos, books, or any other of the usual personal touches, but there was a great view from the window.

The woman closed the door. He watched her as she walked to the chair on the other side of the desk. She was young, but maybe not as young as his initial impression. She was average height, had curly brown hair pulled into a loose partial bun, and piercing brown eyes. She wore a silver choker necklace with a seashell-shaped stone with a rainbow sheen on the pendant. She wasn't particularly attractive, but had an intensity that commanded attention. She moved as though her body was made of purpose. It was almost frightening. Before she took her seat, her hand darted out like a snake or a knife.

"Clara Onan. I'm Mr. Spijker's personal assistant."

Munch shook her hand. Her grip was firm and smooth. "Nice to meet you."

"You implied that you're wanted to know about GeoZet's deal with one Serim Araizhanova." To Munch's surprise, she pronounced the exotic name perfectly.

"That's right. As you may know, she's recently been convicted of murder, a murder some people still aren't sure she committed."

Miss Onan nodded. "I updated myself on the situation when I received your request. Her association with my company was well before my time, of course."

"But you can tell me the details?"

"In 1985, one year after GeoZet was formed, one of Johan Spijker's associates got in some legal trouble in the USSR. Araizhanova represented him and cleared up the mess. When she later contacted Spijker in South Africa and asked for a favor, he was happy to help. We at GeoZet pride ourselves on repaying favors."

"Is that so."

Miss Onan ignored the cynical remark. "Mr. Spijker arranged for her to be listed as a temporary employee for a shipment from South Africa to the Bahamas. He also gave her a small loan to cover debts she'd incurred between Soviet Kazakhstan and South Africa."

"How small of a loan?"

"Eleven thousand dollars. That's chump change in this business."

"Did she ever repay it?"

"She's been making regular payments, but now that she's incarcerated, that could become problematic. Mr. Spijker and this company had nothing to do with Araizhanova's legal predicament."

"Do you know who might? She had a lot of enemies even before she left Russia."

"Then one of them might have done it. She bought the help of some unsavory characters to get out of Russia."

"I think she knows who did it, but she won't tell me."

"Why not?"

"I have no idea. It might have been a rival attorney who was jailed because of her, but I don't know his name."

"That could be a problem. I can tell you, records from the Soviet era are a nightmare." She looked at him calculatingly. "However, I think there might be someone who can help you. One of the...businessmen...who helped Araizhanova get out of Russia is now residing in New York. His name is Konstantin Budny. He may know more about Ms. Araizhanova's enemies, but I can't guarantee he'll agree to talk to you."

"Just tell me where I can find him."

With two blinks, Miss Onan's eyes flicked to the table, then back to him with a firm, pinning gaze. "GeoZet does not associate with anything remotely unethical. I want to make that perfectly clear."

"Of course not." Munch almost sighed. How many times had he played this game? Then something occurred to him: he had nothing on Clara Onan or GeoZet, and she had no personal interest in Serim Araizhanova; why would she help him?

Miss Onan read Munch's expression. "You're wondering why I'm helping you," she stated. "You are an officer currently in good standing with the NYPD, but you're not here in an official capacity, correct?" Munch didn't answer, which she took as a confirmation. She wrote an address on a sheet of note paper. "Like I said, GeoZet prides itself on repaying favors, and so do I. We also keep careful track of favors owed to us." She handed him the address. "I look forward to any possible future dealings, Mr. Munch."

Munch hesitantly took the paper, and felt like he was handing over a chunk of whatever integrity he had left in exchange.


	10. The Visitor

Chapter 10: The Visitor

The next step in Munch's treasure hunt for truth was a shabby nightclub that seemed to have walked straight out of some cliché film noir. He entered the shadowy doorways and almost walked into an oversized bouncer. "I don't know who you think you are, but I guarantee you ain't on the list," the wiry, scarred man said.

"I'm looking for Konstantin Budny."

"Who are you?"

Munch tried to sound confident. "I have some business to discuss with him."

The bouncer glared at him, then beckoned him to follow into a side room.

"Who's this?" a man with a Russian accent asked.

"You don't know 'im?"

"I've never seen this man before in my life."

The bouncer turned on his heels and punched Munch in the face. Munch reeled back against the door. The man socked him in the gut and he collapsed to his knees with the wind knocked out of him.

"Who sent you?" the man Munch assumed was Budny demanded. "If it was that scum Carlton..."

"GeoZet," Munch gasped. It was the first thing that came to his mind, and was easier to articulate and probably safer than explaining he was a cop.

Budny's eyes widened. He uttered a short string of colorful Russian expletives. "I'm sorry; I didn't know." He helped Munch up and into a chair.

It took several minutes for Munch to be able to talk again. He wasn't particularly good at lying, but he decided that was the only safe course of action. "You remember Serim Araizhanova?"

"The Kazakh lady lawyer with the legal troubles? Yeah. That was a long time ago. What's she to GeoZet now?"

"She's been arrested for killing her husband."

"Wouldn't put it past the broad. Too bad. I liked her."

"Some people in GeoZet think she was framed."

Budny nodded. "Now I remember. I thought she and Spijker were a thing back in the day. They found anyone to pin it on yet?"

"That's what I came here to ask you. Do you know who might have a grudge against her?"

"Yes, I can think of five right of the top of my head. You know how much she cost Pavlo Kedziersky when she skipped town in the middle of his trial? I heard Aglaya Karenian vowed to track her down when they learned she really was working with the Americans. But my money's on Samoneit."

"Samoneit?"

"Yeah, you know...the guy who got locked up because of her. Aras Samoneit. Anyone else would have just knocked off Araizhanova instead of going after her husband. She still married to that Petrov?"

"Wait," it was the bouncer who interrupted. "You mean the guy who got whacked was Petrov? Yermolai Petrov?"

Munch looked at him, surprised. "Yeah. Why? You knew him?"

"No, but there was a hit put out on him a while ago." He looked at Budny. "Remember Lilah Evans? She came to town after the hit was put out. The client requested a woman assassin."

"How long ago was that?" Munch asked.

"I don' know, a couple of months."

"Do you know who put out the hit?" Budny asked his underling.

"No. I didn't hear."

Budny turned to Munch. "I guess that's as much as we can do for you. Don't you go telling Zelle and his guys that we weren't cooperative."

"Don't worry, you've been more than helpful," Munch assured the gangster.

* * *

Munch stumbled up the stairs to his apartment after midnight. His stomach ached and one of his eyes was swollen shut.

He was about to open his door when he noticed dim light along the bottom crack. He took out his gun and eased the door open. He took a step inside.

"Well, well. Look who's home."

Munch swung around, and he found himself looking at his partner, who was sitting calmly on the sofa. He quickly put away his gun. "What are you doing here, Fin?"

"I can't come by and check on my sick partner?" he asked mock-innocently. "Imagine my surprise when my sick partner ain't at home. So I wait around for him and he walks in at..." he glanced at the clock, "Twelve fifty-one in the a.m. lookin' like something the cat wouldn't drag in. You get in a bar fight or somethin'?"

"I know better than to drink with how sick I am." He faked a cough. "I tripped going up the stairs of the subway coming back from the doctor."

"Tripped and fell on somebody's fist is more like it. Why are you lying to me? What's up wit' you?"

Munch frowned. He didn't want to lie to his partner, but could he really tell him the truth? "I'm handling some personal business."

"What's personal about the Petrov case?"

Munch looked surprised. It had been months since they investigated that murder; how could Fin have connected the dots?

"You been acting like this since Araizhanova got put away. I know you visited her in prison. But, see, that's what I don't get. For you, that case has stopped being about the victim and become about the killer."

"It's about Serim," Munch said abruptly. "This case has always been about Serim. Petrov was murdered because of Serim. They came to America because of Serim."

Fin stared at him. He thought he knew why.

"I'm not in love with her, if that's what you're thinking."

"Then what is it, Munch? Why this case? Why this convict?"

Munch sighed and slowly sank into his sofa. "I don't know. I guess I'm just...I'm just tired of feeling so helpless. In my decades on the force, I've seen good people die, families destroyed, murderers walk free...I have images in my head that I'm happy to think will die with me. Serim's innocent. Don't ask me how I know; I just know. She'll be locked up for the rest of her life, away from her family, from the life she's built here...unless I do something. I guess that's why this case, because I _can _do something about it. And I'm going to." He looked up, and said what he had only just realized. "No matter what it costs me."

Fin stared at him hard. "And what am I supposed to say to the captain if you turn up dead?"

"That you had no idea what I was up to." He met Fin's stare. "Please," he added plaintively.

Fin stood up. "I better not find you dead in some gutter, old man."

Munch nodded. "Thank you," he said as Fin walked toward the door.

He looked back for a moment. "You should get some ice for that," he said, then left.


	11. Denial and Deniability

Chapter 11: Denial and Deniability

Back at work two days later, Munch looked to see if the name Budny's goon had dropped, Lilah Evans, was in the system. In what felt like the first lucky break since he started digging, she was. Lilah Rose Evans was a twenty-eight year old African American who'd been arrested for crimes ranging from assault with a deadly weapon to public exposure. She had an outstanding warrant for an attempted murder in Boston.

Fin walked by and read over Munch's shoulder. "Either there's someone you want knocked off, or this is a lead on that thing you're working on."

"What gives you that idea?"

Fin nodded to the computer screen. "I used to hear that girl's name when I worked undercover in Narcotics. Hired killer with a bad habit of shooting off jokes along with bullets, but her prices were low."

Munch turned to him. "I heard she might have killed Yermolai Petrov. What else can you tell me about her?"

"Not as much as they got in that file. I never met 'er."

Munch thought for a moment. "Any suggestions on how I could find her?"

"You're crazy if you even think about it." Fin shook his head vaguely. He really did want to help his partner, since this thing seemed so important to him. "Tell ya what: I'll talk to some of my buddies in narcotics; see if she's blipped on the radar lately."

"I'd appreciate it."

Cragen and Olivia walked out of Cragen's office. They were talking.

"Does he look good for a suspect?" Cragen asked.

"I'll tell you after the interview."

"Take Munch. Fill him in on the details on the way."

Munch looked up. "Why me? Where's Elliot?"

"The twins' birthday party," Olivia said as she dragged Munch away from the computer. "It might be better that he doesn't interview this suspect, anyway."

They took the squad car. Olivia drove.

"What's the case?" Munch asked.

"Have you heard about the Tash murder?"

"The one you and Elliot have been working on. Yeah. What have you found?"

"Minerva Tash was beaten to death, had her genitals and breasts mutilated and the sign of the cross painted in her own blood on her face and chest, then she was dumped on church steps in the middle of the night."

"Always a classic."

"Her friends said she was a confirmed agnostic who never set foot in church. She didn't have a boyfriend they knew of, but her coworkers told us that for at least two months before her death she spent her lunch break on Friday at the same café. The waiter said she met an older man there. She always paid. The café didn't have security cameras, but we got his image from a painting a local artist made of the place the last Friday before the murder. Our mystery man went to a nearby gas station and paid with a credit card. He's a Catholic priest, Father Nicholas Jameson."

"And that's our next stop?"

Olivia nodded.

They pulled up to the church.

"Father Jameson?" Olivia asked when she walked in.

The man turned to them. His salt-and-pepper hair was beginning to recede, and his shoulders were slightly stooped, and he looked very tired. "Can I help you?" He asked politely.

"I'm Detective Olivia Benson, this is Detective Munch. We just want to ask you some questions about Minerva Tash."

He nodded thoughtfully. "I see." He looked up, directly into Olivia's eyes. He looked sad and resolute. "I killed her."

Munch and Olivia exchanged glances. He could tell Olivia was ready to grab her gun if the need arose. "Father Jameson, you realize you don't have to speak to us without a lawyer present."

He shook his head. "It doesn't matter. I've been living with this for fifty-four days now. I told myself I was doing it for my congregation, that if my guilt was revealed it would shake their faith, but that was just my pride and cowardice. I asked God to give me a sign if he wanted me to turn myself in, and now you're here."

"Would you come with us please?" Munch said.

Father Jameson obediently walked outside, where Olivia handcuffed and mirandized him.

"We had an affair," he continued as they walked to the car. "I was in love with her. It was a mistake. I wanted to repent and move on. She came to see me. I told her it had to end. She didn't want to, but she accepted it. Then I told her I wanted her to confess to a priest and seek forgiveness. She refused. She said she didn't believe she did anything wrong. I hate myself for what I did: I wanted to convince myself it was her fault; I told myself she seduced me. When she refused to repent, I hit her with a candlestick, the tall one, by the door. I didn't mean to kill her—or maybe I did. I dragged her to my car, drove her to the cathedral, and left her there. I'm not sure why I did that. I wasn't thinking clearly. Maybe I wanted God to find her. Then I came back here and cleaned up the blood."

After locking him in the back of the car, Olivia called crime scene investigators. It was over a month since the crime, but there could still be traces of blood on the floor and the candlestick.

The priest continued his confession. "She looked so surprised, so very surprised. She didn't think I could do something like that. And neither did I. I never would have believed I could kill someone until I did it."

Minutes later, with Father Jameson silently staring out the window, they drove back toward the precinct.

"The things people do for love," Olivia muttered, shaking her head.

"How many criminal cases do they have to get before they realize enforcing celibacy is just a bad idea?" Munch wondered.

"I don't know. Sure, we here about a few cases like this, but that doesn't mean it doesn't work for some people. There's a lot more to life than sex." It was a half-hearted defense; she sounded distracted.

"But it's just not natural to live in complete denial of your attractions. Father Jameson back there killed a woman because he couldn't stand the temptation she presented and had to get rid of it."

Olivia didn't answer. She glanced out the window as she waited for a pedestrian to clear the intersection before making a left turn. When she looked forward again, she had a strange, sad frown.

Munch looked at her for a moment, confused. "I guess I have no room to talk; I could probably teach priests a lesson on celibacy."

She rewarded his joke with a token smile. "It's not that." She didn't talk for a moment, then out of the blue asked, "Have you ever been attracted to a coworker?"

He blinked rapidly a couple of times before answering. "Well, yeah. Who hasn't? Why do you ask?"

"No reason," she mumbled. A moment later, she asked, "Do you think it would be wrong to act on it?"

"I guess it depends," he answered thoughtfully. "Is the person married? What are your relative positions in the chain of command? Are you in the same department?"

"What if the answers are no, same, and yes?"

"It would be risky; not just because of the usual high likelihood that you'll ruin what might be a great friendship, you could also end your career."

She nodded. "You're right."

Munch thought about his pursuit of the Petrov case; in his so-far fruitless quest to prove Serim's innocence he'd done plenty of things that could ruin his career, and he couldn't say he regretted all of them. "I guess you just have to decide if it's worth the risk, just like every relationship," he said.

Olivia glanced at him, realizing he was now talking about his own life.

Back at the station, after processing the suspect, Munch found a sealed, blank envelope on his desk. He opened it carefully. Inside was only the address of a hotel in Philadelphia.

Fin looked over at him from his desk. "What's that, a letter from your girlfriend?" he teased.

"Did you see anyone come by my desk while I was out?" Munch inquired.

"Nah. By the way, I might have a lead on that cold case you wanted me to look into. I heard an undercover in Narcotics might've seen your suspect a couple of times, probably on the payroll of some of the higher-up dealers. But he couldn't turn 'er in without blowing his cover."

"Thanks," Munch said, casually pocketing the envelope.

"Hey, you don't look so good. Maybe you should take a day off."

"Maybe I will."


	12. Betrayal

Chapter 12: Betrayal

Munch had been sitting across the street from the hotel for several hours. He was reading a book, glancing up every time someone entered or exited. At around 8 p.m. a woman left the hotel. In the gloom and from that distance, Munch couldn't tell for sure if she was Lilah Evans, but she could have been. After several seconds of hesitation, he decided to follow her. He trailed her along the other side of the street, far enough back to not be noticed. When she turned a corner, he crossed the street and kept her in his sight. He got a good look at her under a streetlight.

There was no doubt that this was indeed the two-bit assassin Lilah Evans.

She cut across a park. Munch waited a minute, then started down the path after her. He was nervous; after years of being a cop he knew how dangerous city parks could be at night. He was especially cautious as the path curved around a grove of trees. With good reason, he realized when he rounded the curve and saw that Lilah was no longer on the path.

He heard leaves crunch behind him, and turned to see the barrel of a handgun with Lilah behind it. "Who sent you?" she quietly demanded.

"I..."

"I knew you were following me since the hotel, so don't try to deny it." Her voice was high-pitched and vaguely nasal. She easily could have passed as a teenager. "I'm sure I've never seen you before, so I'm not going to bother asking who you are, so just tell me who sent you."

"GeoZet," he tried. It had worked once before.

"Who?"

He was having trouble thinking of something that wouldn't get him killed this time. How could he have been so stupid as to stumble right into this? "I work for Aras Samoneit," he tried. The man he suspected hired Lilah to kill Yermolai Petrov. That could work.

"Samoneit? Why didn't he come in person?"

"He was questioned by the NYPD after the Petrov job; he thought it would be too risky to contact you in person."

"Ah. You one of those private eyes he hired?"

Munch almost answered affirmative, but then changed his mind. "That's not important."

"Right. Does Samoneit have another job for me? I think I mentioned I give discounts for repeat customers."

He tried to ignore the gun she still held. "Maybe, but this time it might be a little bit complicated."

"'Complicated' is my specialty."

"Walk with me. I'll give you the details. Someone might see us if we just stand here."

"Oh, yeah." She seemed to realize she still had her gun out. She put it away, and started walking beside Munch, without taking her eyes off him. "So what's he want this time?"

Taking a chance, he pulled out his own gun and trained it on her. She had whipped her gun back out almost instantaneously. They pointed at each other.

"What is this?" she whined.

"I'm with the NYPD."

"This is entrapment. You have nothing you can pin on me."

"I have an outstanding warrant with your name on it," he countered.

"Then I hope your trigger finger is as fast as mine."

"I just want to ask some questions, Lilah. And my trigger finger is pretty fast for all you know," he added. "Is that a chance you're willing to take?"

She smiled. "I like you. You've got guts. Not that I won't still kill you, but just out of curiosity what do you want to know?"

"Samoneit hired you for the Petrov killing?"

"Yeah," she scoffed.

"In person?"

"Yes."

"How can I find him?"

"What possible reason do I have to tell you? If we both survive this, how do I know you won't turn me in?"

"I'm not really a cop," he lied. "I'm Serim's boyfriend. She's in prison because of Samoneit; I just want revenge."

"I can arrange that for the right price," she said suggestively.

He shook his head. "I want to kill him myself."

Lilah studied him, trying to decide if she believed him. "You sure you're not a cop?"

"If I was, I would have arrested you already. As it is, either you tell me and we both walk out alive, or one of us walks out and the other...well."

"I guess a cop wouldn't have been so unprofessional as to get ambushed in a park. One thing, though, if you get caught—by Samoneit or the cops—my name doesn't come up. Got it?"

"Yeah. Got it."

"Samoneit's got a place in NYC. He's going by the alias Sam Kaminski. That's all I can tell you."

"Thank you." Munch backed away slowly. They kept their guns trained on each other. The sound of a distant police siren grew louder.

When he got to the street, he put away his gun and started speed-walking toward the nearest cluster of buildings. That encounter hadn't gone the way he'd planned at all. He'd harbored hope of arresting Lilah and getting her to lead him to Samoneit as part of a plea agreement. The entire situation was spiraling out of control. He tried to convince himself that if he'd tries that he would be dead by now, that his recklessness in pursuing her had forced him into letting her go, but deep down he was afraid that in his quest to catch one killer he'd let a worse killer go. He wasn't sure he could live with that. He wasn't sure he could face his colleagues after making that decision.

At the next payphone he came to, he made a call to the local police, and left an anonymous tip that Lilah Evans, a killer wanted by the Boston police, was staying at the Pine View Hotel. It eased his conscience a little, but he still had a queasy feeling deep in his gut. He hung up and hailed a taxi.

On the ride to the train station, he stared out the window, wondering how many more compromises he'd have to make—how many he was willing to make—in his pursuit of justice for Serim.


	13. The Connection

Chapter 13: The Connection

It had been easy to find Samoneit under his assumed name. It was listed in the phone book. Only now, when he was so close to his objective, did Munch realize he had no plan. Somehow, he had to find evidence he could use to implicate Samoneit and clear Serim.

He didn't have enough time to think of something, as it turned out. The next day at work, he was summoned to Cragen's office.

The Captain did not look happy. "Sit down," he said with a heavy, exasperated sigh.

Munch did so.

Cragen didn't say anything for a moment. He sighed again and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Then he looked directly at Munch. "I just read a memo from the Philly PD. They apprehended a murder suspect. In an attempt to be cooperative she told them someone was planning to kill a New York man named Sam Kaminski. Her description of the potential killer sounded disturbingly familiar." He stared at Munch accusingly. When he didn't say anything, Cragen continued. "Do you mind telling me just exactly what the hell you've been up to?"

Munch looked back at Cragen. He felt like a highschooler in the principal's office. He took a deep breath. "The suspect, Lilah Evans, killed Yermolai Petrov. Sam Kaminski, a.k.a. Aras Samoneit, hired her to do it. He went to prison in Serim's place back in the Soviet Union, and my guess is he wanted her to suffer for it."

The tight expression on Cragen's face melted into cold disappointment. "You continued investigating the case?"

"She's innocent, and I'm on the verge of proving it."

"How many laws and regulations have you broken to get this information?" His anger bubbled to the surface again.

The time of reckoning had come. Munch knew his job was on the line, at the very least. "I'm not sure."

With a slightly sickened expression, Cragen tossed him a pen and paper.

"Am I under arrest," Munch asked. Fear showed through the cracks in his cynical facade.

"Not yet. I want you to write down everything you did in pursuit of this case. I'm not sure how much of it will go on the official record. I'll have to read it before I decide if it's a witness statement or a confession." He walked toward the door. "Don't go anywhere."

Munch took up the pen, then looked pleadingly at Cragen. "Where are you going?"

"I'm going to send Elliot and Olivia to investigate Kaminski, and see what Casey can do about a warrant. If you move from that chair before I get back..." He didn't have to finish his threat.

Munch began to write. It was slow work, deciding what to include and how to word it. When he was done, he read it over, and saw that this whole thing had been a mistake. For the first time, he went beyond doubting the wisdom of that decision to wishing he could go back in time and smack his past self upside the head. He'd gone so far above and beyond the call of duty that he'd broken the line of ethicality, and stretched the bounds of legality.

Hours had passed, and he took out another sheet of paper and began writing his letter of resignation.

* * *

Olivia and Elliot were silent in the elevator to the suspect's apartment. They'd been given a vague idea of Munch's recklessness, and it disturbed them both. Munch was their friend, and they wanted to trust his judgment, but... 

"We should question him like he's a possible witness, not a suspect," Elliot suggested.

Olivia nodded. "This isn't like John."

"We all do things we know we shouldn't," Elliot said decisively, trying to convince himself that Munch's actions were, if not justifiable, at least forgivable.

They got to the apartment and rang the doorbell. There was no answer. Elliot knocked. The door pushed open about an inch.

They exchanged surprised glances. "Mr. Kaminski?" Olivia called.

"We're with the NYPD. We just want to talk to you," Elliot added.

There was no answer, no sound to indicate the apartment was inhabited.

"Should we go in?" Olivia asked.

"We have a warrant."

They entered cautiously, guns drawn. Based on past situations like this, they both expected to find a body.

"Smell that?" Elliot asked.

"Coffee." Olivia went into the kitchen. A half-empty carafe sat on the burner. She held her hand near the glass. "Still warm. He couldn't have been gone for more than ten minutes."

Elliot pushed into the bedroom. "Looks like he left in a hurry."

Olivia joined him. Drawers were open, contents spilled on the floor.

"Either someone was looking for something..."

"Or Kaminski left in a hurry," Olivia finished. "Which is more likely. Someone searching for something isn't likely to put on a fresh pot of coffee."

"I wonder what tipped him off." Elliot wandered into the living room, where the answering machine sat blinking that there was one message. He pressed the play button, and heard a masculine voice whispering rapidly in Russian.

"Hey, Elliot; look at this."

He followed her voice into the kitchen. On the stove top was a small pile of ashes, ground up.

"He destroyed evidence." He sniffed the air. The smell of smoke was weak, but discernable. "Recently."

"I wish I knew what that paper said."

"There might be a way to find out," Elliot's eyes had fallen on the refrigerator, where hung a magnetic notepad. "Do you have a pencil?"

"Yeah, but shouldn't we take it to the lab?"

"We might not have time." He took the pencil she held out and carefully shaded over the top sheet. Words appeared in negative. Most of it was Cyrillic, but the deepest, most recent impression was an address.

"That mean anything to you?"

"That's about a block away from the Petrov crime scene," she said in amazement. They look at each other, and by unvoiced mutual agreement raced out the door.

* * *

The address led them to a rather seedy storage facility. They flashed their badges at the attendant and asked to look at their records.

"Did a man named Sam Kaminski or Aras Samoneit rent a space?" Elliot asked.

"Uh, let me see." The attendant—a small, skinny effeminate man with large eyes and nervously fluttering hands—pawed through the documentation. "No," he said apologetically.

"What about Lilah Evans?" Olivia asked. As the man looked for the name, she dug out a mug shot of the assassin, realizing she probably wouldn't have used her real name.

"No Lilah Evans," he said, shaking his head.

"Take a look at this photo. Do you know if this woman rented a space here?"

He looked up. "Yeah," he said immediately. "She came here a couple of months ago."

"You remember her from a couple of months ago just from seeing a picture?" Elliot asked skeptically.

"Well, I was on the nightshift, so I was there. Um...she already had a space rented, so she just walked in. She smelled like she'd been drinking, and she was wearing this little red and black thing..." He vaguely traced the shape of the outfit he was trying to describe, with a wistful look in her huge eyes. "She waved at me when she came by. I thought about asking her what she was doing, but I...I'm not good at talking to...to girls." He glanced guiltily at Olivia.

"Do you remember what name she used?" Elliot asked.

"Uh, yeah. Uh...sounded like 'Sarah,' um...Arazo-something. Something foreign. She paid with cash." He flipped open to the record of the night in question. Serim Araizhanova, the date of Petrov's murder.

"Take us to the unit she used," Elliot demanded.

"Um, I'm not supposed to leave the front, but..." He stood up and led them back through the blocks of storage space until they reached G-9. "This is it," he said without looking at them. He stooped down and unlocked the door.

Inside they found a garbage bag. Opening it revealed a blood-stained trench coat, boots, gloves, and a black wig. It had all been soaked in beer in an attempt to cover the smell of blood.

"Oh my...that's not...that's blood!" the attendant gasped. "I didn't know. I swear! It was dark! I thought it was wine or something."

"We have to get the crime scene guys out here," Elliot said.

The attendant, now even more shaky and pale, stumbled away, looking like he'd be sick. Elliot and Olivia followed him, Elliot on the cell phone.

As they approached the front desk, they heard someone repeatedly hitting the bell. "Hey!" a voice called. "Can I get some help here?"

"I'm sorry," the attendant shouted as he broke into a run, eager to put the thought of murder out of his mind and get back to his mediocre but safe normal life.

"I need to get into a unit..."

Olivia rounded the corner and caught sight of the man at the front desk. It was Aras Samoneit. "Elliot!"

Samoneit looked up, then darted away. Olivia and Elliot ran in pursuit. They had their guns out without thinking about it.

"Stop! Police!" Elliot shouted.Samoneit glanced behind him. His shin hit the edge of a concrete step, and he tripped with a cry of pain and dismay. The two cops were on top of him in a moment.

"You have the right to remain silent..." Olivia began.

Aras Samoneit—a man whose credibility and freedom in the country he loved had been taken away from him by a traitor to his ideology; whose wife had left him while he was imprisoned, who'd missed his father's funeral because he was in a gulag, who could not bring himself to blame the government he nearly worshipped and so instead blamed the woman whose freedom had been bought with his—had devoted his life to revenge. It was what brought him to America. But now he saw that all his planning had unraveled. The police would find the diary he'd written about the elaborate plans he designed to bring down his enemy, to force her to endure what he'd endured; they would read the descriptions of the blissful joy he felt as he watched Serim's trial, watched her squirm with recognition of her enemy knowing she feared for her family too much to reveal his name. Having used his savings to hire an assassin, he couldn't afford an attorney skilled enough to get him out of this. "She deserved it!" he spat, near tears with hysteria. He wanted to make them understand. "She deserved it! She is evil and must be punished! Don't you see?"


	14. The End

Author's notes: Endings are not my thing. I'm open to suggestions for improvements on this.

Thank you Unhealthily Antisocial, Your Worshipfulness, Judge Donnelly, big-smiles-all-around, Jynx101, its on the rox, Cardinal Robbins, Animaltalker, and especially LSMunch for your encouraging reviews.

Chapter 14: The End

Munch didn't know how long he'd been asleep. He awoke and lifted his head off the desk when Cragen walked in and flicked on the light. He could tell it was getting dark outside. It felt like the end of the world.

He squinted until his eyes got used to the light. The expression on Cragen's face was unreadable.

Cragen held up two handfuls of paper, one with Munch's "confession," the other with his resignation. "You got lucky."

"What?" Munch mumbled, the words trickled down into his sleep-fogged mind.

"Samoneit confessed for a reduced sentence."

"You caught him?"

Cragen smiled, amused in spite of the situation. "He tried to run. He had a friend in the dispatchers' office who tipped him off, but Liv and Elliot caught up with him. We've also found a load of evidence connecting Evans to the Petrov killing. You were right, John." He dropped Munch's statement in the trash can. "Since there won't be a trial, we won't be needing that." Then he held up the letter of resignation. Any trace of happiness fled from his face. "But this...You're a good detective, John. This case proves that, even though you didn't follow procedure. You've given a lot to your job, and if you want out now, I won't try to talk you out of it, but we'd really miss you around here."

Munch nodded. He was fully awake now. "I appreciate that captain."

"So you'll stay?" he asked half imploringly.

His smile belied the troubled look in his eyes. "You can't get rid of me that easy."

"That's what I like to hear." Cragen crunched up the letter and tossed it in the trash.

* * *

Kseniya Smith and Temir Petrov waited outside the prison. Munch watched from the distance, not sure whether he should be part of the reunion.

The gate opened and Serim emerged, walking slowly, like she couldn't quite believe she was free. Her children ran to her and she embraced them both.

Munch turned away and started walking. Thinking about talking to Serim made his stomach clench. What would he say to her? Getting her out of prison had made him more of a criminal than she ever was.

"Detective!"

He looked back. She was running after him. She stopped a few feet away, panting.

"Serim, I..."

"Thank you." She put her arms around him and kissed him. She drew away a moment later. "Next time, dinner's on me."

"I'll take you up on that." He smiled at her, and she smiled back, then she turned away to rejoin her family.

Was it worth it? he asked himself again. The only answer he could give himself this time was "We'll see."


End file.
